Maggie

Maggie had largely been avoiding the issue of her mother's health. For sure, it was partially the reason she had fled Boston, but it was really just an easy excuse, a way to circumvent the questions of her friends and family members. In truth, she hadn't checked her messages or emails since she left and had only used her phone to call Becca to make plans. She supposed she should at least shoot her cousin Eden an email, if only to let her know she was alive and not dead in a ditch somewhere. But the thought of contacting anyone back home made her stomach twist, as did the 99+ unread messages icon and numerous missed calls she saw every time she opened her phone. She tried to look at her phone as little as possible these days.

Instead, she had filled her time with reading- she had an extensive reading list that had been stacking up, but now she was burning through it like wildfire. She'd also been listening to music, catching up on new releases and planning concerts she wanted to see with Becca. Unfortunately for her, many of the bands she preferred would be playing at The Mill, though there were several venues that catered to the same crowd. At least one show she planned to attend was at another concert hall, with a few more that she was on the fence about. Concert season was in full swing; she could spend almost every night at one place or another, if she wanted.

She'd picked up a few light photography gigs as well, nothing major or long term, but it gave her more wiggle room in her budget. Since she still hadn't found a place of her own, she was saving a fair amount living with her parents. Between that and her savings, she wasn't in too much of a rush to find a permanent job, especially since she wasn't sure if Atlanta would be her permanent home, either.

Her parents were, of course, enjoying her presence. Her mom seemed weaker by the day and seemed to miss her northern home. Maggie wondered privately whether the move really was for her mother's benefit, or if it was for her father's, after all. Him being southern born and raised, she always had the feeling that he never quite fit in with the northern ways, though he had lived there for the majority of his life at this point. When Mr. Bell started talking up Atlanta in the recent years, it didn't seem to take much for her father to latch on to the opportunity to move there.

And he was flourishing. Mr. Thornton had continued his lessons, though his sister decided against giving it another try, much to Mr. Hale's relief. He and Thornton seemed to really enjoy their lessons, and on the rare occasion that Maggie was around during their sessions, she could tell a marked improvement in the younger man's playing. She supposed it must be gratifying to her father to have such a willing and eager student, when most of his other pupils were children who weren't always so enthusiastic.

One sunny Sunday, Maggie came home from reading in the park, which she had taken up the habit of doing ever since Becca and Nick had shown her how gorgeous it was. As she came through the door, she was surprised to find the whole front of the house in disarray- large white cloths, blue tape, and ladders everywhere. She realized her father must have gotten tired of the drab wall color at last.

As she rounded the corner to the kitchen, she bumped smack into Thornton precariously carrying a full bucket of paint. She'd been intending to chastise her father about not asking for her help but was left gaping at the unexpected visitor in front of her. She'd never seen John in such casual and, well, ratty clothes. His ripped jeans were spattered in paint from projects past, and his worn white t-shirt was tight across the chest, obviously a relic from a time before he'd grown into his adult body. And boy did he fill out that t-shirt now, with his biceps flexing with his efforts to try and prevent the paint bucket from spilling. He wasn't entirely successful; a small splash of blue paint sloshed onto his shirt, and when he glanced down, some smudged onto his jaw as well.

When he glanced back up at her with a sheepish smile, Maggie had the sudden, ridiculous urge to run, as she noticed that the blue paint was almost the exact color of his sharp, icy eyes. As the moment stretched into awkwardness, she felt her hand reach up to wipe the paint off his face. Don't be ridiculous, she tried to stop herself, and was left with her hand hanging in the air between them.

John cleared his throat and said, "Sorry about that, I should pay more attention to where I'm going." His baritone voice sent shivers down her spine, making her feel light headed for a moment.

Good god, get a hold of yourself, woman. She wasn't sure what was wrong with her. Maybe it was the thoughts of home that we're making her more sensitive. She shook her head, both to clear it and in response to Mr. Thornton's statement. "Oh no, it's my fault. Here, let me get you a paper towel." Crisis averted, she headed into the kitchen while John went to the front room to set down the pain can. As she grabbed the roll of paper towels, she heard her father coming down the hall.

"Oh hello, Magpie, sorry about the mess. I would have warned you, but it was a sort of spur of the moment idea John had." Maggie could see the half smile on Mr. Thornton's face when he heard her father's pet name for her. John tried to hide his smile as he poured paint into a tray.

Straightening up, John grabbed two rollers, handing one to Mr. Hale. "Now that the prep work is done, we should have everything fixed right up in a jiffy." With that he turned and started rolling the paint onto the wall in front of him. Maggie took that to mean they didn't need help, so she shrugged and told her father she was going to hang out in her room to escape the paint fumes. In reality, she wanted to escape the sight of a man whose shoulder muscles rippled with the movement of painting, and whose jeans hugged his thickly muscled thighs in an almost indecent way.

No, she thought as she closed her bedroom door, nothing good can come from a man like that. She thought she'd been good about avoiding him so far, but obviously he'd wormed his way into her family and her temporary home. And she didn't like that one bit, no matter how good his ass looked in those jeans.

John

He hadn't painted in years, but when Mr. Hale had mentioned how much his wife hated the awful beige of the front room, John had the bright idea to paint it. So, after a quick call to Mr. Bell, who owned the house, John and Mr. Hale set off to the hardware store to pick out paint and gather supplies.

Since it was Sunday, he had a little time off before The Mill needed him back for the concerts that night. He knew his mom was baffled that he wanted to spend his free time with the old pianist and his family, but it was refreshing to be in male company that wasn't trying to subvert his business at every turn, where every phrase was a veiled attempt to one up each other, and every compliment was backhanded. To be with someone who had no pretense, wanted nothing from him but to enjoy music and learn, was like a fog had lifted in his mind.

Of course, his mind was also often occupied with a certain female acquaintance, though he knew she made it a point to be out when he was around. Just because she was absent in body, did not mean she was absent in his mind. At least he could be confident that he wasn't hanging around the Hale's with ulterior motives, since he rarely saw her at all. In truth, he was more likely to catch a glimpse of her picking up Becca at The Mill or out on the town, than he was while in her own house.

Therefore, he was caught off guard when he exited the kitchen and ran right into Maggie. She was obviously surprised, too, as they stood staring at each other. He could feel the damp splotch of paint seeping through his shirt onto his chest. He glanced down, managing to brush his face in the paint. Not so scary now, covered in paint, he thought ruefully, glancing back up at Maggie. She was focused on his face, staring intently at the paint there. As she reached up as if to wipe it away, his entire body froze. She did, as well, and they stood there a beat until he couldn't stand it anymore.

When she whirled away to get paper towels, he heaved a quiet sigh, legs feeling like jelly. He noticed his hands were slightly shaking, so he went to set down the paint. Why do you let her get to you like this, Thornton? He chastised himself, readying the paint tray, as he heard Mr. Hale coming down the hall and calling out to Maggie. Or rather, "Magpie", he smiled to himself at hearing the adorable nickname. It fit her, the birds being naturally curious and persistent. Magpies are definitely not meek and humble songbirds, nor was Maggie.

John didn't like the way she affected him, was thoroughly disturbed by it, actually. So, he decided to try to ignore her presence as much as possible, and set about painting, though he could feel her eyes on him as he started rolling the paint on the wall. Even more so, he felt her absence when she left to escape the paint fumes. It was as if a cold wind had blown into the room, removing the warmth that Maggie had brought in. He tried to shake off the feeling, and focused on painting, the blotches on his shirt and face forgotten and left to dry.

Later that day, after they'd finished the job, cleaned up, and set the front room to rights, John stood in his bathroom, scrubbing his face to get the paint off. He knew he had enough to worry about without adding a relationship in the mix- as if she would even want a relationship with him in the first place. Why did every interaction they had have to be so stilted and awkward? He felt like a teenager, when usually he was smooth and confident with women. But no woman had held his attention for long, and he'd never had a serious relationship. Very few girls were willing to take second place to his work, and none of them were interesting enough or intrigued him enough to take first place. He could feel the years creeping by, however, and so could his mother. She reminded him periodically that he wasn't getting any younger, and that there were numerous girls in the city who would be interested in a dashing young businessman.

He gave a small scoff as he moved to the closet. Dashing? No, he didn't consider himself to be all that. Handsome enough, but too rough, too distracted. There were hordes of cultured young men with gentile graces, from the old money families and the prestigious universities. They had the looks and the manners to back them up, and he could never compete with them. So, he didn't try.

None of it mattered, anyway. Shrugging on a shirt and rolling up the sleeves, he decided to put the matter out of his mind. He had more important things to think about, more than enough problems to contemplate. And for the moment, he had a show to oversee, hoodlums to watch out for, and a crowd to keep safe. With one last glance in the mirror, he closed the matter in his mind, safely tucked away until his planned dinner at the Hale's the next week.

Maggie

As much as she hated to admit it, the house felt so much brighter and comfortable with the new paint job. Her father had told her it was Mr. Thornton's idea, and she had to hand it to him. It made the place feel much more like a home. Mr. Thornton had even helped her father hang some pictures on the walls. Maggie's mom was also very excited and seemed more enthused than she had in weeks. This may have been in part due to the news she gave Maggie early the next week.

"Oh Maggie, isn't this just the thing. I've just heard from my dear Dixie," she said, tucked neatly into her recliner with a laptop on her knees.

Mrs. Dixon, or 'Dixie' as everyone called her, was an old family friend. Though only a few years older than Mrs. Hale, she had babysat her and her sister when they were young, and they had been as close as sisters ever since. Maggie secretly thought her mother much preferred aunt Dixie over her own flesh and blood sister. "And what does the old firecracker have to say for herself?" Maggie asked her mom. Dixie had a righteous temper and was more than a little upset when the Hale's had decamped to Georgia.

Mrs. Hale looked up at Maggie with excitement. "She's decided to come stay with us for a while, to make sure we are well and settled down here!" From his place in the dining room, Mr. Hale groaned at this proclamation. He obviously wasn't thrilled about the prospect of Maria's overbearing friend making herself at home indefinitely. But he would never dare extinguish the light in his wife's eyes, which were so often filled with sadness and discomfort.

"When is aunt Dixon planning on coming down, then?" Maggie asked cautiously. She'd have to get the spare bedroom ready, as it was filled with boxes still, though it was really little more than a closet to begin with.

Clapping her hands, her mother exclaimed "that's the best part! She will be here two days from now!" This time Maggie groaned, as she hoisted herself off the couch, figuring she had better get started on that bedroom. Two days was not a lot of time to prepare, both mentally and physically. At least aunt Dixon would be able to help her mother some, she was nothing if not industrious. And that was part of the problem, she always wanted to put her own two cents out there and fix what wasn't broken. Maggie steeled herself for her arrival; it was sure to bring excitement of some kind, for better or worse.

John

"Alrighty then, you're all set," his barber said as he spun him around to face the mirror. John examined his reflection critically. The barber had gone a little shorter on the sides, left a bit more on the top than normal, but beyond that it was more or less the same hairstyle he'd worn for the last ten years. If it ain't broke, don't fix it, another one of his father's catch phrases. He wondered idly why he had been so much in his thoughts as late, then remembered that it was coming up on the anniversary of his death. Twelve years had come and gone so fast, that it almost seemed like yesterday.

He tried to put his father and the ominous day of his death out of his mind as he paid the barber and walked back to his house. His mother was in the dining room when he walked inside. "My, don't you look spiffy, what's the occasion for the new style?" She asked, having some disturbing notion that she knew what had spurred on the sudden, albeit slight, change.

Putting one hand self-consciously to his head, John shrugged. "No reason, it was just time for a cut and I thought I'd try something new." Mrs. Thornton, who knew her son better than she knew herself, narrowed her eyes. She was mentally calculating, before coming to the conclusion that it had only been 3 weeks since his last trim, when he usually went every 4 to 5 weeks.

John could tell that she didn't believe him but was grateful that she decided not to pursue the subject further. "You won't be home for dinner, then?" She asked, though she knew the answer. He had told her of his dinner plans with the Hale's the night that the plans had been made.

Sighing, John turned to go up the stairs. "No, mom, you know that I have plans. Speaking of, I need to go get dressed before I'm late."

"What's wrong with what you're wearing? I don't understand why you spend so much time with that old man and his family." His mother raised her eyebrows, challenging him to contradict her.

"Mr. Hale has been kind to me, mother. He and his family have been very hospitable, and I intend to return that kindness with respect. Besides, I'm covered in hair."

Mrs. Thornton scoffed. "Oh, yes, his family."

"Simmer down, you have nothing to be worried about as far as Maggie is concerned. She's shown no signs that she even knows I exist. She's from up north, I'm sure there are plenty of men that catch her interest, all very different from a country bumpkin like me." He said this last part with a smile, to make sure his mother knew he was joking. She could be very sensitive when she thought her southern graces were under fire.

"Hmph. And you're better off for it, I'm sure. You don't need the attention of some yankee girl up on her high horse."

He laughed a little at that. "You might want to bring in your plants, it looks like it's coming up a storm." With that he went upstairs to finish getting ready for dinner.